Broken Body
by pepsicolagurl
Summary: Need to see the picture. Need to look at it again. Need to cry. Make her leave, so I can cry. Need to get it out. (SpeedleCalleigh) (Completed)


Title - Broken Body

Author - pepsicolagurl

Rating - PG13 for language, situations and the whole shebang

Disclaimer - I don't own anyone, I'm just playing with them for awhile. You'll get them back in one piece, don't worry. The lyrics in the story is taken from the Matthew Sweet song _Farther Down_, found on the _Can't Hardly Wait soundtrack_. The children's story mentioned in here is Beatrix Potter's, _The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin_.

Author's Notes - One shot fiction. This was born from watching the reruns on television, and paying particular attention to two episodes, both of which dealt with children (one where the father died, one where the child was killed). I was curious about the reaction that Speedle had every time, and this came out of it. Make of it what you will. Enjoy and let me know what you think.

----------

Farther Down

_Into you so far our words go  
So much clearer then you hear  
Into you goes everything I know  
No one else knows how I feel  
_

_Farther down I'm desperate for you  
Where you never have to know  
Farther down I'm still without a clue  
Just something, something takes my pain away  
_

Broken body. Broken doll. Broken child.

He sighed, his feet crunching on the rooftop as he made his way over to the concrete barrier that really did nothing but give a jumper a better base. Not that it was on his mind, he told himself with a rueful smile. It was just that body, that little thing. Something so small, so innocent, so delicate. No breath in the body, no sparkle in the eyes, no warmth in the skin.

His mind raced.

Mother crushing child to her breast. Father smiling during a bedtime kiss. Child with dimpled knees, bright smile, hair blowing in the wind. Poetic. Beautiful. Dead. Not there anymore. Taken from the world, taken some other place, taken from a mother's arms, a father's arms. How well he remembered. Remembrance all over again. Every time one of them came in, it happened all over again. It forced him to relive the worst day of his life, forced him to relive what he never should have lived in the first place.

It was easy.

Replace wispy blonde hair with dark, thick hair. He remembered the feel of that hair. Replace brown eyes with blue eyes. He remembered the shine of tears in those eyes when he had scolded. They were around the same age, same size. Not the same cause, though. It could be, it could very easily be that. He felt the familiar hurt, the proverbial tug at his heart. No more smiles, no more laughs, no more sleeping on the couch. The picture was there, where it always was, but he didn't have the strength. Feared the wind might snatch it from his hand. Any excuse would do, so that he wouldn't have to take it out and look at it, and cry the tears that he always swore would never come back, but the tears that he always gave into the night after a case like this.

It hurt.

What did they think. Did they see him as melancholy, because of the case. Frustrated, because of the case. Angry, because of the case. But it had nothing to do with it, and everything to do with it. It was memories. He knew it the moment that he had walked in for the autopsy, not knowing, not wanting to know. She had been there.

Broken body. Broken doll. Broken child.

Looking so much like the one he dreamed about, and looking nothing like her at all. He had closed his eyes, not because of the sight in front of him, but because what the sight had brought back to him. The smell of wax crayon and scented markers. The feel of her heavy, hot weight against his chest when she was little, and then against his shoulder when she was as old as she would ever be. The taste of candy canes when he kissed her at Christmas. The sound of her screams in the middle of the night when she had a nightmare.

He was shaking.

The uncontrollable tremors when he put the phone back down. The panic when he sat in the back of the taxi, knowing that he was unable to drive. The smell of the hospital, and how it made him sick. The break down when he saw her, alone, small, hooked up to God knows what those machines were.

He turned, knowing that someone was standing there. Someone had crept up on him when he was staring blankly at the Miami skyline, and trying to blink back those all familiar, so hated, tears. He felt the hand on his arm and turned to look at the petite blonde woman, nodding his acknowledgement of her, afraid to speak. She would hear the difference in his voice, she would know that something was wrong. So, he continued to look away from her, hands against the cool cement, staring at nothing. And she stood there beside him, not saying a word, not moving for a moment. She did move, though, and removed the hand that was on his arm and stood beside him, in the exact same pose.

"Tim, are you-"

He waved a hand, stopping her words. Didn't want to speak. Couldn't speak. His eyes closed again, and he saw her.

Broken body. Broken doll. Broken child.

"Everyone was wondering where you were," she tried again.

"Needed air."

Torture. That's what it was. How often had the words been at the tip of his tongue, almost passing through his lips, and here was someone that would stand there and listen to him, and maybe comfort him. No, can't tell her, he thought. She wouldn't understand. She wouldn't understand.

"The parents are here."

And his eyes closed. He couldn't look, couldn't see, because of the film of tears that were covering his eyes. Damn it, did she really have to tell him that? He didn't need to know. He knew what their reactions would be. Mother crying, father fighting back tears. So familiar, yet so different. Because before, all those years ago, it had been the mother fighting back tears and the father numbed to the point that he couldn't comprehend anything. No, don't think about it. Don't think about that moment, don't think about the fight afterwards, don't think about her leaving. All gone, all of it. And what was that noise that was coming from him, he wondered, realizing only too late that he had been speaking.

"She loved Christmas."

The blonde tilted her head to the side, chancing a look out of the corner of her eye. His eyes were still closed. "Did someone tell you that? This is the first time we've gotten in contact with her parents."

But he was swept up in memories now, remembering how she had climbed onto the bed, jumping up and down, pounding her little fists against her father's chest, screeching that it was Christmas, time to open presents, time to see what Santa had brought for her. And what was it that Santa had brought? It was their last Christmas. He should know. A Little Miss Make-up. A Barbie doll that would no doubt end up in the bath tub before the week was over. Stuffed animals. Candy Land. Hungry, Hungry, Hippos. Yeah, he remembered, and then sighed.

This was now. No more laying on the floor, and watching her giggle as he pretended to eat the cards. No more tickle wars just before bed. No more snuggling up with her on the couch, reading her favorite story over and over. That tiny white hardcovered book. Still hidden in his apartment, with the rest, but that was her favorite. He knew it, word for word. Read it every now and then when the emotions became too much. And he was speaking again.

"This is a Tale about a tail - a tail that belonged to a little red sqirrel, and his name was Nutkin. He had a brother called Twinkleberry and a great many cousins; they lived in a wood at the edge of a lake."

Voice shaking. Hands shaking. Body shaking. But she didn't touch him, didn't go near him. All she did was allow the concern to cloud her eyes as she finally turned her face towards his. "Tim, are you all right?" she asked, finally getting the question out.

Tortured sigh. Familiar sound. Warm tears, but remaining where they began. Don't let them fall, dear God, don't let them fall. "It was her favorite."

"The little girl down there?"

He shook his head. Sound of glass breaking in his mind, in his memories. Tiny shards of glass winking back at him off the kitchen floor. Better clean it up before she gets home, the little rugrat always liked to run around in bare feet. But he never cleaned it up, because he knew that she wasn't coming home. "No," he whispered. "Not her." Was he answering her question, or just lost in the memories. Tiny little footsteps, trying to sneak up on Dad, and him knowing that she was there all along. Fake a shout, grab your chest, eyes wide, play along. Tiny little toes. He had put a band-aid on her heel that morning, that last morning, after he pulled out the splinter. Tears in her eyes, but they never fell, because he distracted her. Made her laugh. Tiny little giggles.

Need to see the picture. Need to look at it again. Need to cry. Make her leave, so I can cry. Need to get it out.

His hand went to his back pocket for his wallet, and then he faltered. No, not in front of her. Hands went back to the concrete. Then back to his pocket, then back to the front. He couldn't make up his mind. She did it for him. No, nothing sexual in it. Simply her hand taking out his wallet, warm from resting against his backside. She put it in his hand, and watched the hand shake again.

Couldn't help it. Need to see it.

He never opened his eyes as he unfolded the leather and reached inside, taking out a worn photograph. The edges were torn, from all the times he had reached for it. Colors were fading, but he knew what it looked like. He forced himself to open his eyes, and look down at it, fingers clenching it tightly. Little girl and dad. Sleeping on the couch. Head laying on his chest. His arms around her, so that she wouldn't fall off. Both looked peaceful. There he was, and there she was, frozen in time. He wished that the moment had never passed. The warm weight of her, the comforting sound of her tiny heart beating against his. He had woken up after the flash had gone off, and looked at the smiling woman with the camera, then down at the little girl tucked against him, and then went back to sleep. Always the same. Daddy and daughter taking a nap on the couch.

Jaw trembling now. Lips shaking. Want to let it out. Scream, yell, tear up the picture, don't look at it ever again. No, can't do that. Keep the picture, put it back in your wallet.

"Was she-" Calleigh started to ask, and then stopped. She couldn't form the words.

"Yeah," was his answer. He didn't feel the solitary tear on his rough cheek, didn't feel it when it started to fall. Landed on his lips, he tasted it. He was crying again. He knew that he would. Too many years had passed, but not enough tears. Never enough.

"What happened?"

She knew. She figured it out. He knew that she would.

"Broken body. Broken doll. Broken child," he recited. Same thought every time. It never changed.

Questions in her eyes. "What happened?" she asked again.

"Car accident." Don't say anymore. Don't speak anymore. Stop it. Don't want to relive it in front of someone. Private pain. "She could never get the car seat in right. She always got frustrated. I usually put it in for her, but I was at work that day. Delivery day. Had to stock the bottles, count the cases of beer, hook up the new kegs. I shouldn't have been there." Stop talking, damn it. Just fucking stop it.

Couldn't stop. On a roll now. Words wouldn't pause. Just kept coming and coming. Just like the tears. They were falling now, fast and furious. Two more fell on the picture in his hands. Joined the other stains there. Didn't matter. He had another copy of the photo, pristine, perfect, at home. He didn't wipe them away. "She left me a note. Had to pick up something at the store." Voice dead, eyes alive with pain. "Something for dinner. Took her along, but she couldn't get the damned car seat in there. Just stuck her in the front seat, told her not to touch the seatbelt. Then I got home."

She didn't dare touch him. It would make him stop. The words were flowing out of him without a single pause. Not at all the Tim Speedle she knew, the one that talked in fragments of a sentence, always short with his words. It was eloquent to listen to, but painful. His whole body was shaking now, with unreleased sobs. Why didn't he just let them out? Because she was there, she answered herself. Because no one could see him like that.

"Four messages on the answering machine, but it was old. It could never play them back. Don't know why we even kept the damned thing on. She left me a note to tell me where they had gone. I didn't know that it was three hours ago that she wrote it. I poured myself a glass of water, and the phone rang."

Wet socks, bottom of his pants soaked. One shard of glass resting on his toe. Kicked it away. "I couldn't drive, I had to take a taxi to the hospital. Didn't even notice that I passed the accident. When I got there, they would only tell me where...wouldn't tell me where my little girl was. And when they took me tot he emergency room to see her, I passed by the room that...I went in, but she was already...so many wires, so many lines going into her. But the machines were beeping, and nothing was happening, and she looked a mess. Her hair was filled with blood. Almost every little bone in her body...she had barely made it to the hospital. They said, if she had been in a car seat, then they might have been able to..."

Put the picture back. Don't look at it. She isn't alive anymore.

Broken body. Broken doll. Broken child.

"But she...she was fine. Just a scratch or two. SHE was ready to come home."

Calleigh swallowed thickly, seeing the anger on his face, taking an unconscious step backwards. He looked mad enough to strike out, to hit someone, and she was the only person around. He didn't even realize that she was there anymore, it was like he was talking to himself. Don't make a noise, she told herself. Let me get it out, and then you can talk, you can come closer to him.

"Couldn't even look at her. She killed her. I couldn't stay there, not anymore. I had to leave, couldn't stand being in there. I yelled at her, she screamed back at me, and the next morning, she wasn't there. She had gone back to stay with her parents. Couldn't take the pain, she said. SHE couldn't take the pain. and SHE was the one that killed her. I never saw her again. It was just...over. She never came to the funeral, never even showed up. Never called, nothing like that."

Wallet back in his pocket, hands back on the concrete. Head bowed, forehead touching the cool stone. Back shaking. Hiccuping back the sobs. Don't let them out.

And she touched his back with a single hand, and he broke down.

Broken body. Broken doll. Broken child.


End file.
